The Noblest Glory

What Ho Proles!

My Man tells me that they call this is called ‘mobile blogging’, which means I’m sitting in the middle of London, picking all of you up across the wireless, though where the wireless is located I could not tell you. We’ve been attending a conference about government and the internet, though I confess, My Man (he’s now insisting on the capitals in lieu of an extra shilling a day) seems to understand more of this than I. He’s like a sponge at times, whatever virtues that entails. As for the Honourable J.P.M., he skipped out pretty early and spent his morning in a local hostelry, where he happened to bump into an old friend from Eton who has just come back from a tour in Afghanistan.

I should say at the outset that we Murgatroids have always been a family of great warriors, though a slight ocular deficiency in my right orb happens to make me a mite dangerous with firearms, as My Man’s many battle scars can attest. Although I never had the pleasure of going into battle against anything more vicious than a pheasant, I don’t believe this prohibits me from speaking up with some authority on the nature of warfare and the kind of men who stand in the face of gunfire when many would lie, or at the very least, squat.

In particular, I find it astonishing what I’ve just been told about the government paying taxes back to our armed forces. It surprises me that people even bring up the subject of taxation when we should really be speaking of the red mist, blood lusts, and valiant rampages. The government has got it all wrong if they think battle hardened soldiers care a hoot about compensation. I’m speaking, of course, about British officers. I know very little about the habits of enlisted men, but I’m sure there are, even among their lot, warriors still up for a good bash and damn the expense. Are these not the same British troops of whom Siegfried Sassoon spoke of their dying 'with due regard for decent taste'? Then, surely, they cannot care a jot whether they’ll receive their taxes back at the end of the campaign. They are engaged in the higher callings of bravery, sacrifice, and esprit d'corps.

I know I always go on about my Great Grand Uncle Hector P. Murgatroid who lost his right lobe of manhood to the Boars, but did he come back and demand 10% back on his net annual income? I think not. Nor did he expect compensation for his loss. A cigarette, a quick grope of a nurse, a painkiller if he was lucky, and he was bright as sunshine; less of a man but no less a gentleman.

So I trust we can put all this nonsense behind us. When I eventually find myself in a position to form Tory policy, I’ll see to it that we reintroduce National Service in the hope that many more men will learn the same lessons as my Great Grand Uncle Hector. Until his dying day, he swore that his injury was the best thing that happened to him, so who am I to disagree? Instead of talking about tax, the government should be looking for more trouble spots where we might send our brave lads. A nation is only as great as its warriors, so I believe it’s up to the government to prove that our troops really are the best.

‘ten shun!